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December air is a colder cold the hours before dawn.   Well suited but too cold to lay, deer are on the move.   A hunter couches in the woods also suited head to toe.  
Wolves howl on this silent night. Singing out anguish to the moon. Letting their fear and anger be known. Raising their voices, letting their pain be known.
The pristine colors of brush and grass swirl together like paint on an artist's hand after a day's work. Deep green cedars sprout, like rocks out of the sea, from the pastel yellow and purple tide of aging grass.
Rodney’s cigar smoldered ashy red As a flash of brown fur leaped up by his side. My shotgun smelled of smoke, and oil, and lead.   I shot the mallard drake, clean in the head.
His hands are calloused and torn, browned by the sun as always but now they are stained red with blood   Silent, he grips the butt of his rifle with one hand and a dirty cloth with the other  
Hunting, stalking Silent anticipation Waiting, watching Obsessive fixation   Remember last time In the yard The intruder got away   Not again This time we win
  I’m looking through the scope  She’s looking down the barrel. My hands don’t shake as I hold the gun. I cannot feel my toes And when I curl them my whole foot tingles.  
You love them like me, so: You pray, You hope, You donate, You help, You share, But... You hunt,  You kill, You endanger, You skin, You cage. Bright! Bright!
The sound of growling crawls its way from The dark of the forest, accompanied by Faint, weak cries of hunger. A mother sets forth. “There is no more time. With nearly
Over the clouds, radience I see; Under the radience, a nest; Over the nest, a fire set on the tree; Under the tree, a hunterat his best; Over the hunter, a need to flee; Under the fear, the end of his quest.
Image author unknown   Those grey birds They beat their wings Droves of feathers following Up and up into the air Flying high with little care One bird, two birds
 I Wake up, With a coffee cup.  Watching the sunrise,  In the mountain highs.
The all american cowboys
I'm Me for a few reasons to be the one who loves all four seasons I'm either in the mountains or in the flint hills fishing or biking, whatever gives me the most thrills I'm with my dad with a gun in my hands
With want I watch the hunter and his dear. His delight; unfaltering, does not cease. A mere goodbye; you help me in my fleece- Out to the woods, to the cold morning’s air.  
It's that time of year again, when the duck migration does begin. Shotguns, waders, and shells, ready to hunt the flooded rice fields. Opening morning sunrise, signals the ducks early surprise.
All signs read, great hunting ahead. The rut was beginning, in the woods I was hunting. The deer were a moving, they need not be hiding. Acorns were a dropping, many a deer came running.
Out into the woods I walk I dont even dare to talk As I hear the sound of a duck I look around only to see a nice eight-point buck And as I feel the old worn bark of an oak
TO FISH OR NOT TO FISH? That is the question… Every redneck as himself on Saturday morning when its not, I repeat; Because this is important. It cannot be hunting season. That will trump everything.
What's UNDER the ARMOUR? What's inside the shell? What stirs up the STORM? What causes the swell? When times get tough, Do I run and then hide? Or do I stand up and fight,
Here I sit in the dark, alone and cold. The rain and wind, pounding the blind, don’t stop. The blind sways and creeks, acting as if old. The bait sits waiting, the cream of the crop.  
We’ve seen death. We’ve experienced what the clueless would call “murder”. We’ve felt every emotion possible After that trigger was pulled, Or that arrow was released. The others, they don’t understand,
You want an idea of human rights,but are you ready to listen to the fights.Listen, listen carefully to my rhymes,about the absurd things occurring in prime time.You know about these absentees,
Terrifying noises Chase me from my home But as I run away Faster still they come   Their henchmen are behind me Nipping at my heels Their howling voices snarling How each of them feels
wake up one day take a look in the mirror i have something to say my message must be clearer i will not be a statistic so my think must stay logistic, theres a lot of wrong in this cruel little world
The quarry stands unaware
Hey there Dad, get your gun let's go to the woods for some fun. The weather is mild and not too bright, cotton tails been out all night.
It is November, my favorite time of the year. This is when I sit in my stand, waiting for a deer. I wear blaze orange, dressing in layers of clothes. There are hand warmers and a heater
Cold metal is no longer terror, ‘Till cold metal becomes warm, Cold metal is her weakness, Yet a friend that always warns.
The Hunter’s Dilemma The hunter is a proud person Proud of where he comes from Proud of what he does And proud of what he has done.
The Black Death stands with his herd nibbling on the tough, stubby grass. The large crown adorning his head gleaming in the noon-time sun.
The Black Death stands with his herd nibbling on the tough, stubby grass. The large crown adorning his head gleaming in the noon-time sun.
Bang, bang. No sleeping tonight. The Sand Man won't come, No child will dream. Blasphemy on sight.
Whole room grew quiet as your mother cried. "He's been killed," they said, "execution style." She'd just found out her first-born son had died, Crime scene so gruesome and bloody and vile.
I wish my phone would ring I call home, waiting alone, dial tone screams my mind's cold behind this blindfold of space and time I can't escape it I'm waiting and like a fine rope this line holds
The destruction it leaves the people who grieve Is it worth it to have a weapon that leaves people so sad? We need them to hunt we need them to survive but some people just have them
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